


These Violent Delights

by lafiametta



Category: Still Star-Crossed (TV)
Genre: Benvolio POV, F/M, Ficlet Collection, Isabella POV, Prompt Fic, Rosaline POV
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-31
Updated: 2017-06-10
Packaged: 2018-11-07 03:35:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11050488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lafiametta/pseuds/lafiametta
Summary: A collection of Still Star-Crossed ficlets based on prompts from Tumblr.





	1. Like Fire and Powder

_**Prompt:**  How about rosvolio and the conversation that would happen after he discovered rosaline and escalus!_

* * *

With a soft rustle of skirts, Isabella pressed herself through the doorway and into the narrow, ill-lit antechamber. A lamp would have been unnecessary in any case, as she knew the contours of the room as well as her own mind, having spent countless hours in it waiting, listening, observing.  _A prince must be watchful_ , her father had told her, and so she was, her eyes and ears taking in every word, every gesture from her ideal hiding spot. 

Her fingers quickly found the small wooden panel in the wall and slid it sideways, revealing two round pinpricks of light. Pressing her face up against them, she blinked twice against the glare and then gazed into the chamber beyond, knowing with confidence that her dark eyes could not be seen from the other side, disguised as they were within the mottled landscape of a rather poorly-executed portrait of Cangrande riding triumphant into Padua.

There were only two figures in the chamber, a man and a woman, and they were not yet speaking, nor were they even looking at each other. 

It had been Isabella’s idea to have them be brought there, just as it had been her idea, skillfully woven into her brother’s mind until he eventually regarded it as his own, that the two should be wed. Such a union, she realized, would solve so many problems. There would be peace in the streets, the warring houses brought together by vows sworn to God, the only thing stronger than the hot blood of vendetta. The people’s spirits would be buoyed by stories of tender-hearted love – and by the celebratory wine flowing freely in the streets. And her brother would no longer be distracted from his duty by thoughts of a woman entirely inappropriate for him in rank and station. Such a union would force him to set aside whatever adolescent sentiments he might still have for Rosaline Capulet, to then wish her and her new husband well, and at last return to the requirements of his role as prince of Verona. 

Such a plan would accomplish a great deal, if only the two figures at the center would play their parts as instructed. 

Rosaline, of course, had been the most resistant. She had always been so, willful and proud even as a young girl, and there had been a time, as childhood friends, when Isabella had secretly admired her for it. But grown women didn’t have the luxury of pride and will, especially not those in the position that Rosaline now found herself. The young man – Benvolio was his name – was less well-known to Isabella, but as the penniless nephew and sole heir of Lord Montague, he would no doubt be brought to heel just as quickly. 

There was something strange, though, in the way he had eventually gone after Rosaline after she had fled from the Great Hall, a look in his eyes that seemed to suggest he felt something more than just the simple humiliation of being publicly spurned by his soon-to-be fiancé. He had seemed even more troubled after he returned, only a few moments before her brother and Rosaline reappeared, their expressions chastened and eyes downcast as they failed to meet anyone’s gaze. Isabella did not fully understand it –  _not yet, at least_. But she would watch, and wait, with the certainty that their secrets would be revealed to her soon enough.

So once they had all returned, she had suggested – with all the sincerity and maidenly innocence she could muster – that the new couple be allowed a private moment, a chance to begin to get to know one another, and it had not been hard to bring everyone to agreement. And she knew just the place: a small audience chamber her father had often used to meet with visiting dignitaries and ambassadors, left almost entirely unoccupied these days, but perfectly suitable for their needs.

It would have been perfectly suitable for Isabella’s needs as well – if only for the fact that neither the future groom nor his bride were saying anything at all to each other, leaving the air in the chamber to weigh heavy and thick, curdling with silent tension. Rosaline sat stone-faced in a chair facing the door, while Benvolio had his back to her, his hands braced up against the solid stone mantel of the fireplace.

For a long moment Isabella wondered if they were ever going to speak at all, until finally the young man turned towards Rosaline, taking one hesitant step in her direction before he let a weary sigh escape from his lips.

“This arrangement was not of my choosing, nor of yours,” he said, his words slow, as if deliberately chosen. “But, before anything is done, tell me – and speak plainly, as I have no wish to play the unsuspecting fool – have you already formed an attachment with another?”

So it was true, then – he had come to suspect what Isabella already knew. Had the Montague heir seen something, some open declaration of the prince’s feelings towards Rosaline?  _Or even of her feelings towards the prince?_

Rosaline swiveled her head to look at him, not moving an inch otherwise, her hands left passively clasped upon her lap.

“Do not attemptto know my heart,  _signore_ ,” she sneered. “Such an endeavor is beyond your care or concern.” Her eyes narrowed, as if she was finding it hard to maintain her composure. “And no doubt you would struggle, for as I have heard, your knowledge of a woman’s anatomy is limited to a single place, one nowhere near the heart at all.” 

He inhaled sharply, his face a rigid mask of anger, and after a tiny, abortive movement of his hand towards his waist, Isabella realized he had reflexively reached for his sword, Rosaline’s sex the only thing that had saved her from being challenged. Instead, he charged forward into the center of the room, his eyes blazing.

“To know your heart would be a futile course indeed. I wonder if it even exists, or if an equal measure of pride and icy disdain simply reside in the place where it ought to be.” He pressed his hand into his forehead, rubbing along the ridge of his brow. “But you evade the point, madam.  _Do you have an attachment?_ ”

Isabella could only stand and watch agape.  _Was it possible the man was jealous?_  Why would it pain him so to think this woman loved another?

“Yes!” she thundered, at once coming to her feet, turning towards him with her determined little chin thrust high in outrage. “An attachment to my liberty! I would not be bought and sold like common chattel, I would not know the yoke of a petty tyrant who thinks himself a king because he bears the name of husband.”

He barked out a laugh, but there was no joy in it, only bitterness.

“I pity the man who would try to yoke you, more so the one who might attempt to bare his heart and speak to you of tender sentiments and thoughts of love.”

“Love?” Rosaline scoffed, throwing a hand out for emphasis as she took a step towards him. “A child’s game! Look what it brought our cousins.”

And so it went on, accusation upon accusation, recrimination upon recrimination, until Isabella could only shake her head in frustration and half-wonder if they would continue to engage in such hostilities up until the moment they reached the altar and the priest made them kneel in preparation for their vows. Dearest saints in heaven, could anything be made to flourish in such rocky soil as this?

But as she continued to watch them, she could not deny the passion with which they railed at one another, the way they seemed to be slowly circling around each other as they sparred and parried, both the hunter and the hunted. Such passion was dangerous – even from behind the wall she could sense the shimmering combustibility of it – but it would no doubt keep Rosaline occupied, until perhaps there would be no space left in her mind for any thoughts of the prince.

Perhaps, Isabella thought, her lips curling into an unbidden smile, her plan might actually succeed. House Montague and House Capulet would not burn down her city, taking her beloved brother along with them. No, she promised herself: their heirs, like fire and powder, would unite and consume only each other, until there was no danger left at all.


	2. A Fine Complement

_**Prompt:** Domestic Rosvolio request, Benvolio helps Rosaline brush her hair and get her ready while they discuss various public events they're required to attend._

* * *

He was whistling. The man was _whistling_.

She understood it for what it was – a childish attempt to goad her and provoke her temper – but she was determined not to let him succeed. She would ignore him, just as she had ignored him as he stood waiting in the doorway to her chamber, nonchalantly slouched with one hip leaning against the wooden frame. Just as she had ignored him when he slipped his parrying dagger from its sheath and began to trim his fingernails with it. But through it all, Rosaline struggled mightily to keep herself in check. Truly, the man was beyond insufferable.

His presence alone set her thoughts on edge, and she did not understand why he had been allowed to wait here in the first place, as she was still an unmarried woman – although not for long, if the prince and the heads of their two houses had their way – and he a known libertine of the worst kind. Above all, though, he was a Montague, and she supposed few of her kinsmen would want him roaming freely around the grounds of the Capulet palazzo.

Tonight was the banquet celebrating their betrothal, to be held at the palace, and he had come to escort her, but of course he had arrived early – another thing she was certain he had done deliberately, just to be irksome. So now he had to wait as she finished her preparations, and with the added distraction he was providing, it was taking longer than she had expected.

Rosaline told herself not to look at him, not to give him the satisfaction of knowing that his petty provocations were having any effect on her at all. But as she sat in her chair, pinning a lock of hair into place, she could not help it if her gaze momentarily swept over towards him, taking in his long form as he leaned against the door.

He was wearing a new doublet of rich dark leather, and even she could admit that it suited him, fitting close at shoulder and waist. Flourishes of cream-colored linen edged along his wrists and his half-unbuttoned collar and she could spot a tiny nick right below the edge of his jaw – a casualty, perhaps, of an unsteady hand during this morning’s shave.

His face, as always, was a handsome mask of devil-may-care arrogance, and if there was something below the surface of that countenance he presented to the world, she told herself she did not care to know what it was. Let other women be drawn in by whatever charms he might possess – she was made of stronger stuff.  

The whistling – praise the heavens – finally ceased, and he let out an audible sigh and crossed his arms over his chest, giving a wide glance about the room until finally letting his gaze come to rest on her. Rosaline itched to look back at him, to meet his proud glare with her own, but she would not give him the satisfaction of knowing he had provoked her to a response.

“Is that what you plan to wear?”

Rosaline bristled; of course this was what she was planning to wear, otherwise she would not be wearing it. Her dress, made of dark blue serge, imported at some cost from Florence, was entirely suitable for the occasion, if only a little plain, and besides, it was the nicest thing she owned. Not that  _he_  would understand privation, being allowed to live handsomely at his uncle’s expense.

She glanced up, anger swirling through her veins.

“Do you find something objectionable about my gown, sir?” she said, with ill-concealed contempt.

“I’m not sure,” he replied, taking a step into the room, his dark eyebrows raised. “Are you attending our betrothal celebration or a funeral? Or perhaps you’re planning on taking vows at the convent as soon as the evening’s festivities are concluded?”

Her hands curled into fists within the folds of her skirts.

“If that was all it took to keep me from a lifetime of your company, I might well look to the convent!” She paused, pushing herself to breathe deeply and regain her composure. “But,  _yes_ , this is what I plan to wear.”

He offered her a small snort of disbelief. “Oh, come now, my lady, there must be something slightly less sepulchral that will serve just as well.” He walked towards the wooden chest that sat at the foot of her bed and gave it a small tap with his boot. “What treasures might be found in this fine reliquary, I wonder?”

And before she could even rise to her feet to stop him, he had lifted the lid and begun to sift through her belongings – as if they were his, as if they, and she, belonged to him already and she had nothing, not even a tiny corner of an old battered storage chest, to call her own.

“Sir, I must protest at this!” she cried. “As my betrothed, you are allowed certain liberties, but I cannot –”

“Ah,” he said, cutting off her words, his eyes fixated on something within the depths of the chest. “A prize, indeed.”

At first she had no idea what he had found, but as he pulled it free and began to unwrap it from the pale muslin cloth that covered it, she caught a glimpse of brilliant velvet, tiny beads along the edging of the cuffs catching in the warm light of the late afternoon sun.

In truth, she had forgotten about it entirely, for it had been at the bottom of the chest for several years, and it had been longer still since she had seen it gracing the figure of its original owner. The memories welled up like tears: the last Twelfth Night they had all been together as a family, the house draped in festive curls of ivy and servants piling the table high with dishes, the aroma of onion and sage from the meat pies making Rosaline and Livia’s stomachs grumble with anticipation, and at the center, orchestrating it all, a honey-voiced woman in a beautiful burgundy-colored gown.

He unfolded the dress and lifted it up to get a better look, letting the skirts swing freely without touching the ground. Something in his face, though, had shifted. The arrogant expression had slipped away, two tiny lines now appearing between his brows, his gaze unmooring itself from the object in front of him. It made little sense, his reaction – and then through the haze of her own emotions she remembered that he, too, was an orphan.  _When had been his last Twelfth Night?_  she wondered.

“‘Twas my mother’s,” she said quietly.

He nodded, and after a moment turned his head to look at her.

“Will it do?” he asked. “For tonight?”

To her surprise, she made no objection, only calling for a servant to come and help her change, for she needed another pair of hands to loosen the lacings of the old gown and tighten those of the new. She worked quickly, tugging the garment into place, only once or twice taking advantage of her position from behind the dressing screen to watch him absently pace along the length of the stone floor.

But once Rosaline finally emerged, fitted and laced, she found herself unwilling to meet his eye, overcome by a strange and altogether uncharacteristic fit of self-consciousness. She kept her gaze lowered as she returned to her seat and at once resumed the pinning of her hair. Every part of her was acutely aware of his presence – and the directness of his gaze upon her – but even so, she did her best to ignore him, just as she had before.

He slowly circled around her, finally coming to a stop nearly in front of where she sat.

“Hmmm, not quite,” he said, his voice cool and appraising.

Her heart sank deep into itself, heavy with disappointment, followed no less quickly by a thunderous voice rising in her mind, unbraiding her for caring a whit for what this Montague cad thought of anything at all. Sweet Jesu, was there no end to his torment of her? He would dare to offer criticism of her attire, even after he had been the one to request that she change it? He would impart cruelties, even after she had foolishly confessed to him where the burgundy gown had come from?

A newly-hatched barb was ready on her tongue when he suddenly kneeled down in front of her, his hand reaching into his doublet and pulling out a small object wrapped in a handkerchief.

“You are missing something,” he said, unfolding the fabric in the palm of his hand until at last it revealed a pair of luminous pearl and ruby earrings set in filigrees of gold. “These.”

Rosaline’s breath wavered within her chest as she gazed down at the jewels. Where had he possibly come by such finery? And what did he mean by presenting them to her in this manner?

“They were _my_ mother’s,” he murmured. “And now – if you wish – they shall be yours.” 

She hesitated for a moment, as the thought of accepting anything at all from this man was too new to seem anything but strange. But overcome by the allure of his gift and – in some immeasurable way – by the blush of sincerity in his sea-green eyes, she reached out and took the earrings from his outstretched hand. The stones were still warm against her fingertips – warm from him, she realized, from having been carried so close against the heat of his body.

Setting that unbidden thought aside, she quietly murmured her thanks and then slipped the earrings on one at a time, taking a tiny pleasure in the feel of them as they graced along the side of her neck. She had no looking glass by which to judge, but she felt certain they looked beautiful and served as a fine complement to the dress she wore.

The smile on his lips – perhaps the first he had ever freely given her – seemed to tell her that as well.

“But now, if you will hand me one of your pins, my lady?” he asked, extending an open palm to her once more. “Your chambermaid has disappeared and I wish to be of some use. Perhaps then,” he continued, his tone low and arch with measured drollery, “we might arrive at our own celebration before the night ends and the morning breaks anew...”


	3. The Colors of His Lady

There was no prompt for this one, just a burning need to know how Rosaline would react to [seeing Benvolio dressed in armor](http://lafiametta.tumblr.com/post/161342800717/oh-sweet-jesus-i-just-had-a-vision-of-what-it)... :)

* * *

Rough alarum bells rang out in violent echo through Verona’s streets – yet they were barely heard over the city-wide panic that seemed to grip its citizens by their very throats. Shopkeepers boarded their windows and barred their doors, looking to find some way to protect their goods from pillage and destruction. From open doorways mothers cried out for their children and then quickly pulled them inside to safety. Able-bodied men had been told to find a weapon – although some carried little more than kitchen cleavers and pitchforks – and, once assembled into small companies, to make their way to the city gates to meet the danger that now threatened them all.

An army, led by the duke of Milan, was on its way – and it was growing ever closer as the day progressed. The host numbered eight thousand men, so the rumors said, alongside two thousand German mercenaries well-known for their savagery.

A citizen militia, however set they might be on defending their homes and their families, could do little against such highly-trained soldiers, so the prince had called upon the aristocratic houses, asking that each send forward their best men-at-arms to ride out against the enemy. And so Rosaline had spent the morning hours – like all the women of her house – in a whirl of activity, helping to ready the men for battle and the palazzo for the possibility of protracted siege. She had worked tirelessly, running from one task to the next with little rest, not wanting to let her mind lay idle, not wanting to contemplate what horrors might be unleashed were her Capulet kinsmen defeated and her city taken by the enemy.

The men had at last assembled in the courtyard, fully girded for war, led by her uncle, who sat sternly atop a hulking gray destrier. The women had donned ribbons of Capulet blue in their hair as a measure of support, and even with tears threatening in their eyes, they waved their handkerchiefs as the men departed in a cloud of hoof beats. Only once the dust had settled did it occur to Rosaline that she was tied not to one house, but to two. It was from a sense of duty – and _only_ duty, she told herself – that she decided she must go and bid farewell to one last man before he departed for the field of combat.

She did not bother to take a servant – it would have been too much trouble, and besides, she resembled one well enough, a fact that allowed her greater ease of movement through the streets. But the mood outside was riotous, a barely-controlled chaos that seemed ready to erupt at any moment, and so she avoided the crowds, skirting close to buildings and drawing the hood of her cape up over her head as she hastened towards her destination.

As she walked, the streets became less and less familiar – she had few dealings on this side of the river, the heart of Montague power – but she guided herself by landmarks, her eyes continually keeping watch on the tall granite bell tower that guarded over the abbey church of San Sebastiano. His palazzo, she knew, was just there, tucked nearby. It was not as handsome or as grand as her own home, she noted as she approached it from the street, but it bore the trappings of wealth nevertheless.

People were still coming and going from beneath the arched portico, and she hurried inside, hoping that she hadn’t come too late.

Within the house, few took notice of her – she was dressed plainly, after all – and she found herself moving aside to make way for a group of knobby-kneed squires bearing armloads of pikes and brightly-polished poleaxes. She had half a mind to stop one of them and ask where she might find their young master, until she glanced past them, gazing into the wide courtyard beyond.

Near the center of the courtyard, just next to a burbling fountain, a young man was quietly adjusting the leather straps of his horse’s bridle, wrapped deep in thought. Warm sunlight gleamed brilliantly against the burnished steel of his armor, curling over the fluted breastplate and the round pauldrons that encased his shoulders. His arms and legs were similarly covered, and a final plate circled protectively around his neck, ending just below his trimmed hairline. He had set aside his slim rapier, exchanging it for a heavy broadsword that hung from the belt around his waist. Looking at him, Rosaline felt her heart quicken with a sudden jolt. She did not understand how, but her Montague betrothed had been utterly transformed. In her mind, she had associated him with all the callow excesses of youth: irresponsibility, recklessness, a desire to live only for his own pleasure. In front of her, though, with his marble-cut profile and hair turned red and fiery in the rays of the sun, was a man, one arrayed to practice the lethal arts of war. Were it not for the somber, melancholy strain in his eyes, he might resemble Mars himself.

His task complete, he gave the animal an affectionate rub along the length of its muzzle, and moved to place the reins up towards the front of the saddle. With a turn of his head, though, his gaze found hers, his expression at once overcome by surprise and confusion.

Her feet compelled her forward, powered by an urge she did not fully understand, until she was but an arm’s length away from where he stood.  

“My lady… Rosaline…” he said softly, his brows furrowing inward. “Why have you come? Why have you not stayed at your uncle’s?”

The words came slowly, trapped as they were between her head and her heart. “I have come to see you, before you ride out. To offer you a farewell,” she at last replied. “It is only fitting. For we _are_ betrothed, are we not?”

He said nothing to her question, but dismissed it with a sigh and a shake of his head. “The streets are dangerous and the Milanese army almost to our gates. You ought not to have concerned yourself with me.”

She wanted to argue back, to tell him that she would concern herself with what and whom she pleased, to remind him that they were yet unmarried and for now, at least, his will would not prove a master over her own. But she bit back her tongue, knowing that she could not start a quarrel, not now. For she had not come all this way just to let him depart with only foul words having passed between them.

That he might never come back at all was a possibility she had not fully contemplated until this moment.

A curly-haired squire clad in dark red livery approached, carrying a round metal object polished to a high sheen, which he held out for his master to take.

“Your helmet, my lord,” he said.

Her betrothed grasped it tentatively, his gaze following the squire as the young man turned and disappeared back into the shadows of the house, and then finally falling upon the steel helmet in his hands. From his silence, his unfocused gaze, and the pale pensiveness that had begun to cloud his features, Rosaline could tell that he was thinking of the battle to come, perhaps wondering if he would live to see the end of it. She could not say why it pained her so to see him disheartened, for he was nothing to her – and she to him, no doubt – the two of them bound to each other solely by royal decree. Still, some small voice within her urged her to speak, to offer him the balm of what few comforting and encouraging words she had to give.

“In more chivalrous times, they say, a knight would go into combat wearing the colors of his lady, to furnish him with strength and to help him remember what he was fighting for.” She reached up and pulled the blue ribbon loose from her hair, holding it towards him. “Will you wear them for me?”

If he seemed surprised by her words, he said nothing, but raised his arm in acquiescence, allowing her to tie the ribbon around the top of the metal plate that encased his elbow. Once she had finished, she looked up at him once more, noting – with some small pleasure – that his mood had brightened. A ghost of a smile curled along the corner of his mouth, and there was something in his eyes as well, a trace of that brash, sardonic humor she had come to know well since their betrothal.

“Look not so pained, my lady,” he said in gentle mockery. “Perhaps I shall fall in battle, and then you will be free. And as we are not married yet, I’m certain your mourning period would be brief. You should be able to cast aside your black veil by Michelmas at the very least.”

She shook her head, feeling a smile begin to play upon her lips as well.

“If you could try not to die, for my sake at least, I would well be pleased,” she replied, realizing at that moment that she spoke the truth. She was certain – that is, fairly certain – that she had no desire to marry him, but she did not wish to see him taken from this earth. “For black does not flatter me,” she added, “and I would fain not have to wear it for so long a time as that.”

“Now there you are wrong,” he murmured, “as any color would suit, for such a face as yours.”

His compliment was unexpected, as was the warm flutter that stirred within her chest. She pressed her lips together, suppressing a smile – and then, out of some unknown impulse, she leaned over and gave him a small kiss upon the cheek.

His eyes turned wide with surprise, his mouth open to speak, when suddenly a great clamor of shouting was heard throughout the courtyard.

“To arms, Montagues! To arms!”

The rallying cry had been sounded, armored men on horseback now thundering through the courtyard, and Rosaline knew that the moment had come to say goodbye. It seemed far too brief a time to her, though, too brief to voice the thoughts that came unbidden to her mind, too brief to do anything but look back at him, her breath turning raw and unsteady as she met his gaze.

His eyes were like two fierce stars, blazing with determination, but she had little time to wonder why, for without warning he grasped her by the waist and pulled her to him, pressing his mouth firmly against hers. Her palm was flat along the smooth metal of his breastplate, and she might have pushed away, struggled somehow to release herself from his hold. Yet she did not. Instead, she surrendered, her body melting against his as their lips met in passionate desperation.

And then just as quickly, he released her, and after having found his mount and hoisting himself up into the saddle, he circled closer and met her gaze one last time.

“If you would be so kind, lady, as to keep me in your prayers?” he asked. She nodded breathlessly, still feeling the warmth of his lips on hers, and with a spur of his horse he galloped from the courtyard to join his kinsmen, the dark blue ribbon on his arm fluttering against the bright gleam of steel.


	4. No Secrets Between Us

_**Prompt:** Rosvolio + wedding night?_

* * *

There was not enough wine in the world to ready Benvolio for what he was about to do.

God knows, he had done his best to fortify himself for the task at hand, having finished off several glasses of his uncle’s best Rhenish between all the feasting and the dancing – and, for his pains, was now feeling more than a trifle light-headed – but he could not yet bring himself to rise from his chair and make his way upstairs, where his all-too unwilling bride waited.

The ceremony had taken place that morning in Capulet’s cathedral, as his uncle had wished, for the remaining structural work had miraculously – and mysteriously – been completed before the arrival of autumn. All of Veronan society had turned out for the occasion, dressed their most colorful silks, velvets, and brocades, making the interior of the basilica resemble nothing less than a great casket of jewels. His bride, for her part, had made her way towards the altar dressed in a gown of deep cerulean blue, and Benvolio couldn’t help but notice the bodice, cut square and delectably low across her chest – before he had the good sense to shift his gaze upward.

As the assembled nobles stood watching, the two of them had knelt, their hands joined together by the bishop, followed by an exchange of vows in Latin. There was a brief mass, and those gathered took communion, beginning with the newly-married couple, both of them dutifully parting their lips to receive the body of their Lord. It had been difficult for Benvolio not to think back to the last wedding he had attended – a secret one, with only two witnesses, the ceremony performed by a humble friar – and draw altogether unfavorable comparisons. For all the misfortunes it had brought, his cousin’s marriage had at least been born out of love, not politics, and there had been no mistaking the joy and passion in the eyes of Romeo and his Capulet bride as they had uttered their vows in that candle-lit chapel. Benvolio’s new wife would not even look at him – although he could hardly blame her, given his rather cowardly lack of resistance to the news of their betrothal. And if her heart secretly belonged to another, as he had come to suspect, gazing upon his face would no doubt bring her only pain.

At the celebratory feast that evening, they had proved a somber pair as they sat together at the high table, sharing from the same plate and goblet, but saying almost nothing to each other. She drank but a half-glass of wine and ate very little, and part of him wondered if she planned to escape this marriage simply by refusing to eat, intent on wasting away from lack of sustenance. As the revelries proceeded into the night, Benvolio found himself reaching for the wine time and again, refilling the glass from the silver flagon that sat nestled among the platters of food. The warm evening air was heavy with torch-smoke, thick with the sounds of the drum and pipe as they sung out over the voices in the crowded courtyard, and Benvolio had slowly felt his head begin to spin with it.

In that haze, his eyes had found occasion to seek her out, drawn to her as to a lodestone, although he did not dare to let them linger long. For even in her silent indignation, his wife truly was beautiful – no man could deny it. In the warmth of the torchlight her skin shimmered with rich tones of gold and umber, pulling attention to the winged jut of her collarbones and the length of her neck. She had been endowed with wide, dark eyes, made more expressive by her frequent displays of wit, and a pair of full and rounded lips that seemed to have been formed for no other purpose than to be kissed. He remembered how she had once spoken of her desire to enter a convent – but by Saint Peter, what a waste that would have been.

Yet in the end it mattered not what he thought of her neck or her eyes or even the fullness of her lips, for she did not want him and had only consented to marry him by means of great persuasion from her uncle and the prince. And as Benvolio stared into his half-empty glass, he had realized he could not bear to have her think of him the same way, as yet another man who sought to break her will upon his own.

By and by, the night had grown late, the torches burning low within their sconces, and the time had come for the bride to take her leave and excuse herself from the assembled company. She had risen to her feet amid the ribald cheers and customary encomiums to her beauty and virtue, and just as quickly departed – all without a single glance in Benvolio’s direction. A pair of serving women had been directed to escort her upstairs to his chambers and there she was to make herself ready for bed.

Benvolio waited as long as he possibly could to follow, and he might have waited a while longer, had not his uncle come and clasped a strong hand around his shoulder.

“Go, Benvolio, and make a Montague of her,” he urged, nodding his head towards the stairs, “or at least put one in her.”

Benvolio’s face burned bright with shame – for they should all have been ashamed, having cruelly used this young maid as a pawn in their dealings – but his uncle mistook it for excitement and laughed lustily, quickly pulling Benvolio out of his chair and pushing him in the direction of his chamber.

His feet were like lead upon the stairs, a sharp contrast with his dizzy head, and a hopeful part of him latched onto the possibility that she had simply gone to sleep rather than await his arrival.

Alas, fortune did not favor him, for as he quietly opened the door he could see that a single candle had been left burning and his new bride was sitting up in bed, very much awake. She was clad in a nightgown of fine ivory linen, her unbound hair falling in loose curls over her shoulders. A pair of dark eyes instantly turned towards him, her hands stiff as she clutched the bedclothes tightly against her chest. He had not imagined that he could possibly feel more abashed, but the way she was staring at him, with equal parts defiance and fear written into her gaze, made his heart twist forcefully against his ribs. _Had she imagined that he would straightaway attempt to claim his marital rights,_ he wondered, _even in the face of her unwillingness?_ One look at her was all it took for him to know.

“Fear not, lady,” he muttered with a sigh, “I will not impose myself upon you.”

His words seemed to put her at ease, but only slightly, her wary eyes still fixed upon him as he stepped into the room.

“And what of tomorrow night, and the nights that follow?” she asked. “Will you say the same?”

“I will say it every night you do ask it of me,” he answered quietly, “for I am not the unrepentant blackguard you imagine every Montague must be.” Benvolio rubbed his hand along his forehead, a sudden weariness overtaking him. “But for tonight, put out thy candle and let us have peace. I will rest elsewhere…” – he nodded towards the long wooden bench set flush against the opposite wall – “…and leave you to your dreams.”

He did not wait to see her reaction, but made his way over to his makeshift bower and swiftly stripped himself down to his shirt and hose. It was not until he had laid down upon the bench, using his wadded-up doublet as a cushion for his head, that he realized she had not blown out the candle. _Let her keep the light_ , he thought as he closed his eyes, _if it brings her some comfort_.

He had almost surrendered to the weight of sleep when he heard her shifting upon the mattress.

“I wonder, my lord,” she murmured, “if you _had_ decided… to _impose_ yourself, what might you have done?”

Benvolio’s eyes snapped open, uncertain that he had heard her true. He glanced over and saw that she had turned onto her side to face him, propping herself up upon an elbow. Something had shifted in her expression, for while she still held herself guardedly, she no longer looked quite so apprehensive, and her eyes glinted with a spark of curiosity. Still, in the thick fog of his mind he could not be sure she knew exactly what it was she was asking.

“What might I have done, when I came into the room?” he stammered.

She nodded, her gaze wide enough that he could see the light of the candle reflected there. Time seemed to slow for a moment, in the stillness of his half-darkened chamber, and all Benvolio could feel was the rough pounding of his heart within his chest. He did not entirely understand why she had thought to ask such a thing, but he would give her an answer – a truthful one.

“Well… to begin, I would have come to sit by your side, lady. For ‘tis all very dependent on proximity.”

“Of course,” she said, her features softening ever so slightly. “And then?”

The corner of his mouth tugged upward in a wry smile, the first time it had done so all day. “Perhaps I would have kissed you,” he said, with a shrug of his shoulders. “Gently at first, and then with greater urgency.”

With her gaze still caught on his, she bit against the fullness of her bottom lip, perhaps in innocence, or perhaps to tease him – and with a tightening sensation in his belly, Benvolio realized he did not care in the slightest which it was.

“Is that all?” she asked.

He exhaled roughly, his breath half-mixed with laughter. “Oh, my Rosaline, had you no nursemaid to tell you of such things?” He paused and pursed his lips, taking her coy silence as his cue to continue with his answer. “No, ‘tis merely the beginning. For then I might have taken you into my arms and held you close, until naught remained to separate us.”

Her lips parted a little, her chest rising and falling with each breath. “And what of our clothes?”

“I would fain have us unclothed,” Benvolio replied, and her dark eyes widened, as if scandalized at the thought. “As husband and wife, there should be no secrets between us.” He swallowed hard, allowing his mind to momentarily cloud with visions of his new bride, her bare skin velvet-smooth and flush with yearning. Perhaps it was only the presence of such distracting thoughts that could explain the liberties he took in speaking to her so brazenly. 

“And I would wish to see you, my lady – all of you – as you laid back and pulled me down with my weight upon you. For then there would be nothing left but for me to possess you fully, our bodies joined together in the most intimate of ways.”

He fell silent, knowing not what else to say as he gazed at her, recumbent upon his bed, the wild tendrils of her hair spilling onto the sheets, her eyes shining with something that could only be desire. His breath came heavy, caught in his throat, his hunger for her coiling and nestling deep within his groin. Benvolio found himself filled with the compulsion to rise to his feet and make his way over to where she lay, so he might in fact begin to enact that sequence of events he had just described to her. Before he could do anything, though, she tilted her head, her gaze leveling him with cool appraisal.

“Perhaps it is fortunate, then, that you were compelled to restrain yourself,” she said, her eyebrows raised into uniform arches. “For now, armed with such knowledge, I feel wholly prepared to resist any advances should they be attempted.” She gave him one final shrewd glance before she put her lips up to the candle’s flame.

“Good night, _my lord_ ,” she whispered, and with a single breath plunged the room into darkness.

For a moment, Benvolio could only lay back upon the bench, fully awash in bewilderment and frustration, listening to the rustle of the bed linens as she settled herself down for sleep. But as he recalled the words that had just passed between them, he finally came to the realization that she had provoked him deliberately, drawing his mind towards thoughts of carnal pleasures all the while knowing she would allow him no satisfaction of them. But her response to his words had been clear enough – she could not have feigned such desire, could she? _Jesu, what sort of bold little minx had he married?_

And then he couldn’t help but smile, and shake his head, knowing that he had all the remaining days – and nights – of his life to figure it out.

**Author's Note:**

> Come talk to me on Tumblr (@lafiametta) about all things Still Star-Crossed!


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